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Something teenager this way comes

My teenage daughter doesn't read the newspaper. And I would very much appreciate it if you didn't tell her about this article, as she is perpetually miffed with me as it is.

Back in May, when I brought her home from Kansas State University for the summer, she was so meek and agreeable. We talked and sang and laughed the whole 12-hour drive home. It was such a happy reunion, with family, friends, pets.

She swooned that first night being back in her own room. Dorm life, she said, was like putting a feral cat, a chihuahua with Little Dog Syndrome, and a porcupine into a picnic basket.

So that's how my summer started: with a humble quiet young lady who bore a strange resemblance to the wild thing I had sent off to college nine months before. I remember thinking how cool it was that she finally appreciated the sweetness of Home Sweet Home. And this lasted all of about 24 hours.

No sooner did she get a good night's sleep, than the teenage insanity started to creep back into the kingdom. Worming through the cracks like some weird species of a gurgling Marty-Feldman-eyed slug.

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Like most of us, she had one grand goal for the summer: to get in shape. I was so proud of her. I ponied up for a private trainer and a gym membership (Thank you, Southwest Fitness), the latest and greatest in smoothie meal replacement technology (Thank you, Body by Vi), and the latest in fashionable workout apparel (Thank you, Big 5). And this lasted all of about 24 hours.

She actually told me the first week she was home, that after living with complete slobs at college, she had become a neat freak and that she could no longer stand having clothes on the floor.

After I started breathing again, I sang out, "Hallelujah!" and praised God for the greatest miracle since ear plugs.

The condition of her room had long been one of our biggest conflicts, so to hear her say that she could no longer tolerate clothes on the floor was music to my lives-with-a-teen-who-likes-screamo ears.

And this, you guessed it, lasted all of about 24 hours.

I now have a theory that there is a recessive gene that governs whether a person prefers drawers or the floor for day-to-day clothing storage. My daughter has the floor gene.

While she was off at college, I had bought myself a red convertible Mustang (Thank you, Ruidoso Ford). (This thing is great: turned out to be the perfect cure for empty nest syndrome.) But there was no way the prodigal teen was going to drive it.

So I bought her a little Ford Escape (Thank you again, RF). Like most entitled youth, she complained about the color, grumbled about the brand, and said she wouldn't drive it if it was the last car on earth.

This lasted all of about 24 hours. After which time she gave it a cutesy name, hung flowery doodads from the rear view, took 5,403 pictures of it, and threatened to kill anyone who got a speck of dirt in it.

Lasted about 24 hours. Now it is covered with mud, heaped with McDonald's styrofoam, upholstered with dog hair, and serves as a giant SUV-shaped laundry basket.

Ah, but despite her crying-one-minute-happy-the-next, show-me-the-drama, I-love-you-can-I-borrow-$20 approach to life, I adore this beautiful blue-eyed teen-creature. Observing her journey to adulthood continues to be the most astounding experience of my life. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can compare.

All the other drama and weirdness of my life combined doesn't come close to her unique comedy, absurdity, and complexity.

I realize, at long last, that all I can do is stand back and just love her. And this will last all of about a lifetime (Thank you, God).